The writer reflects on his time in the French capital
Thinking about the events in Paris, I remember that a modern French philosopher said, “We need time to find the words for our bewilderment.” Unfortunately I can’t remember which philosopher it was. My memory, once quite good, is playing tricks. This morning I couldn’t even be certain that it was Marlowe who wrote the play The Massacre At Paris. I looked it up, and was pleased to see that I had been right. It was a typical old man’s pleasure. A wardrobe falls on his head, and he congratulates himself for remembering the word “wardrobe”.
You know that terror is getting its way when you find yourself in a discussion with your daughter about whether your granddaughter should be discouraged from sitting in a Left Bank cafe on her first visit to Paris about seven years from now. At the moment, two of my writer friends are visiting Paris and I have just written to both saying how much I would like to join them and sit in a cafe while we talked, read and wrote: the things we do best. But I can afford that brave thought because I won’t be going there.
Related: Clive James: ‘Glimpses are all you ever get. There is so little time’
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